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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29345658">Is This Mrs. Allen?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BusyBea18/pseuds/BusyBea18'>BusyBea18</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Flash (TV 2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Journalist Iris West, Married Barry Allen/Iris West, POV Iris West, The West Family (The Flash TV 2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:15:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,018</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29345658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BusyBea18/pseuds/BusyBea18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-canon, with canon elements<br/>Journalist Iris wonders who she is—Mrs. Allen, Iris West-Allen, or Bartholomew’s girl, as she and Barry live their lives as newlyweds</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barry Allen/Iris West</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mrs. Allen</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is this Mrs. Allen?”</p>
<p>“Yes, this is,” Iris said pleasantly to the woman on the phone, as she was going to make a little gentle correction and say that she was really Mrs. Iris West-Allen, but the sound of Mrs. Allen caught her in a warm and fuzzy spot. It really did sound melodic to her, and she just sat listening to it play its gentle music in her ear a little too long, so when she heard, “Mrs. Allen?” It was too late.  “My name is Mrs. Branford J. Hayworth. Of the….”</p>
<p> Iris knew exactly who she was and on whose behalf she was calling. She was calling about her volunteer sign-up.</p>
<p>“… Central City Hospital, Very Sick Children’s Wing.”</p>
<p>That wasn’t actually the name of the wing but everybody called it that. She wondered why.</p>
<p> “Are you still interested in volunteering, Mrs. Allen?”</p>
<p>Iris couldn’t believe her name came up so quickly. The waiting list humbled her when she went to sign up, and Iris didn’t know if Mrs. Hayworth knew her and Barry’s story, because even though Central City was big, her little private piece of it was not. Come to find out she hadn’t heard the gossipy parts of the story. She just had to keep reminding her that she did not marry Barry in a chapel, but at City Hall. “Oh, what a shame,” Mrs. Branford J. Hayworth commented. “You’re just the type for a big beautiful wedding. I can still remember my own wedding. Over two hundred people attended, some I didn’t even know. My mother and father insisted.”</p>
<p>“I loved my wedding,” Iris said. “It was perfect.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m glad. We only get to do it right once… but oh, pardon me… Mrs. Allen, can you come in tomorrow for an interview?” Iris was thinking that yes, she could, because she had already submitted all of the paperwork, and then she’d gently tell her about her name, because she agreed, you only get to do it right once.</p>
<p> “Thank you, Mrs. Allen,” Iris heard. And Mrs. Branford J. Hayworth began giving Iris directions to the specific building and to her office.</p>
<p>After she got off of the phone, Iris didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help looking around her beautifully decorated home. After they got married, she and Barry had spent evenings shopping, then decorating, and getting each space right. What they wanted to do in each space dictated what they put in the space. It was the reason why they only had a bed in their loft for a month.</p>
<p>She sat daydreaming about their new life in their loft, renovated and brand new, the way she felt. Just that morning, she lay in bed while Barry cooked for her. But really, the fury of the lightning in her kitchen told her that the Flash cooked the bacon and eggs and maple syrup indulged pancakes. Presently, she peeped under her plate. His little love note was not there. It’s probably under something on her desk at CCPN. She better get going. She loved it when she found his notes.</p>
<p>Iris came out of her thoughts and slipped on her coat and grabbed her keys. She’d have to straighten out her name with Mrs. Hayworth at the interview. For now, she wanted to go back upstairs and peek at their warm and cozy and just decorated new bedroom, with the tall tufted headboard, the bank of sun-drenched windows, the reading bench waiting for her and Barry in the evenings to lounge on, he stretched out on the bench with his head in her lap, and listening to Iris read from her blog, but she didn’t want to be late for work.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>Iris parked her car in the back of Central City Picture News, grabbed her laptop and started to the door. “Iris!” she heard. She turned around. “Yes, it’s you! Iris West.” It was a familiar face, Iris thought, a college face. Her old roommate was coming at her with arms open and gave Iris a hug. “Hi, girl. Miss West, look at you. You got a job at CCPN.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I….” Iris was torn between trying to get to the door and stopping to talk for a sec because she had really clicked with this roommate when a few were not that friendly. This girl, at least, never tried to hit on Barry.  “But my name is… is….” Was she <em>thinking? </em>Her old roommate laughed. “Iris West, right? Or did I…?”</p>
<p>“Oh no, I am Iris. Glad to see you again… er….”</p>
<p>“Cindy Holmes,” her former roommate said.</p>
<p>“That’s right. You liked my tattoo.” Iris smiled broadly. But that wasn’t all she liked. She liked Iris’s writing. Iris remembered all of the essay assistance Cindy got from her. Cindy would always thank her by taking her out for pizza slices. And there was something else too. She was one of a few people to ever see Iris’s tattoo. Iris remembered, she used to call her ‘Bartholomew’s Girl’ because of his name hidden in the Iris flower of her tattoo. ‘Who is this guy and why did his parents name him that?’ she would joke Iris.</p>
<p>She was saying to Iris now, “Thanks so much for being a sweet college roommate. Now I’m going to subscribe to the Central City Picture News and read your stories. ‘By Iris West?’” her former roommate asked as she started running down the street for the bus. “By Iris West-Allen!” Iris yelled after her, making her happy correction.</p>
<p>Once Iris got to the door, she slowed and opened it as if she were not ten minutes late.</p>
<p>“Lateness is unusual for you, Ms. West.”</p>
<p>Iris dashed into her cubicle and wanted to straighten her co-worker out about her name, but she had to get her computer up and ready. When she first came back to work, trying to get details about where she went and with whom and what they did was not what bothered Iris about this worker. She kept giving her advice on her career name. “This is not the 1950s,” her co-worker said. “You should not go around calling yourself Mrs. Allen. That’s <em>his</em> name.”</p>
<p>“But it’s my name, too. And I like him. And I like his name.”</p>
<p>“Iris, Iris, Iris, what is <em>my</em> name?”</p>
<p>“Diane Clarke,” Iris answered.</p>
<p>“Yes, exactly, Iris. My husband’s name is Baxter.”</p>
<p>Iris’s eyebrows went up. “Sooo…?”</p>
<p>“His surname.”</p>
<p>Iris smiled. “Oh, you’re really Mrs. Diane Baxter. I mean Mrs. Diane Clarke-Baxter.”</p>
<p>“No. I am not Mrs. Clarke-Baxter. He has his name and I have my name. Just because we’re married doesn’t mean I should lose my identity. You should go by ‘Ms. Iris West.’ Better yet, just ‘Ms. West.’ Let everyone know you mean business—that you’re a professional.”</p>
<p>Iris smiled faintly.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>During lunchtime, Iris had lunch with Barry in his lab. Iris had prepared leftover pot roast sandwiches for the both of them and stuffed a couple of cloth napkins in their lunch bags. Iris smiled. She was trying hard to be a great wife.</p>
<p>But Barry knew something was bothering Iris and watched her as she stared at her pot roast sandwich, lying in the plastic wrap. “You want to tell me?” Barry said. “Maybe we can figure it out together.”</p>
<p>Iris sighed. “Maybe….”</p>
<p>“That’s a good start. Maybe what?” Barry asked.</p>
<p>“It’s my name. I’ve been various versions of me all morning.”</p>
<p>Barry looked at her puzzled.</p>
<p>“I’ve been Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Iris West, Ms. West, Hey Girl…”</p>
<p>Barry had taken a bite into his roast beef sandwich. The meal had become one of his favorites, too. She wondered if he knew she got the recipe from his mom, and that it was the very first meal Mrs. Allen served her when young Barry first invited her to dinner. Now <em>she</em> was Mrs. Allen, and the thing is, it felt so wrong to reject the name. She loved Mrs. Allen, and maybe it’ll bring moments of happiness to her grown son.</p>
<p>“Iris, whatever you want to call yourself will be good, will be right. And I’ll support it.”</p>
<p>She looked at Barry crossways. “Even if I call myself Ms. West?”</p>
<p>“I fell in love with Ms. West,” Barry said, “so yes, especially Ms. West.”</p>
<p>She smiled “You fell in love with <em>Miss</em> West, Barry. She was ten or something like that.” They both ducked each other’s bashful eyes and continued eating their pot roast sandwiches. But Iris wanted to kiss Barry then, really, she wanted to cry too, because he could live with another Mrs. Allen.</p>
<p>“Don’t think too hard about it,” Barry said.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>It all got her thinking about herself just the same. Who was she? It all came to her mind when she began her volunteer work at the Central City Hospital, Very Sick Children’s Wing.</p>
<p>The first day volunteering was exhausting, but good exhausting. Barry let her relax as she watched him cook dinner: steak, baked potato and a salad. While he was at the stove, they both stopped to watch footage of the Flash during News 57. Two quiet smiles, both tired. “I think Central City believes in the Flash,” Iris said, while she watched him cancel out Heat Wave and Captain Cold. As Barry got the steaks from the broiler, it occurred to Iris that her husband had just as many names as she had. But he knew when he was Barry, or Mr. Allen, and on rare occasions, Bartholomew, and he knew when he was the Flash. Sometimes the Flash showed up in her bed but generally, it was Barry. And in spite of a few electrically charged, beautifully shocking nights in bed with the Flash, she got in bed with and wanted Barry Allen.</p>
<p>So later that night, she awakened hugged up in Barry’s arms. For the first time in a while, they had not had sex. Their jobs drained them, their volunteer passions and commitments taxed them. Iris brought her arms up to hold on to Barry’s, who had her in a gentle but firm side hold, her butt gently pressed in his groin, one of his legs between hers. In the quiet darkness of their bedroom, she raised her hand just so, and examined her wedding rings. It meant everything to her to have Barry put Nora Allen’s rings on her finger. She loved the set, and the sparkle was timeless, tying his happy life and love of his parents to her and her life with him. Barry did have a mom, who was a wife, a mother, a homemaker, a role model. Iris called her Mrs. Allen, and was close enough, just about ready to call her Miss Nora. But then the unspeakable happened to her. Now she herself was Mrs. Allen. But was she?</p>
<p>She moved some, and his arms instinctively held her in place. She relaxed, didn’t worry about lying against his chest, her head resting under his chin, she listening to and feeling his peaceful breathing, his gentle snoring. Suddenly she felt water escaping her eyes, but she ignored her tears. She caressed his arm outside of the covers. She spent minutes appreciating the rings on her finger. Another Mrs. Allen to love Barry. In their darkened bedroom, the water from her eyes stopped. She brought her hand up, wiped her tears away, and fell back into a sleep, Barry still holding her.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>One morning, before Iris ran out of the loft to go to work, she made a quick call to her dad. There had been a question stuck in her mind for a few days now that she had to ask him. “Dad, what did mom use to call me?”</p>
<p>Her father responded as if he thought the question came from out of nowhere. “She called you Iris,” Joe said.</p>
<p>Iris held the phone to her ear a second or two before she said quietly, thoughtfully, “I just wanted to know.”</p>
<p>“Is everything okay, Baby girl?”</p>
<p>About a week later, when she and Barry had dinner at their old house, Joe asked her, “So, you’ve been thinking about your mom.”</p>
<p>Everyone was quiet at the table, because the woman of the West’s house had been gone for such a long time until Iris could not recall the sound of her voice, or the twinkle in her eye, or if she had one. Maybe she had sighs instead of songs or children’s rhymes. Was that the reason Iris wanted to volunteer in the Very Sick Children’s Wing, because she missed her mom’s arms, or because she couldn’t recall them and wanted to make sure some other little kid would remember a caring hug, an attentive gaze as they talked, and more than the words and melody of a sing-along, but how they felt when they sang and then laughed together.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Francine West,” Iris said aloud.</p>
<p>Barry said, “Maybe we’ll name our first daughter Francine,” as Joe coughed and almost spit out some of his wine.</p>
<p><em>“Dad</em>,” Iris laughed. “I’m not pregnant, so stop choking. Let us be newlyweds for at least a year.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Joe. We take precautions.”</p>
<p>More coughing from Joe, then a shooing away sign like, stop that. “Even though we have gone through the box of condoms Iris bought me seven years ago,” Barry added with a big grin.</p>
<p>A new series of choking, more wine spitting. <em>“What?”</em> Joe asked.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, Dad,” Iris said, but giving Barry a colluding glance, “I got the condoms from my old stationery shop, and they were custom and expensive, but it was Mrs. Allen’s stationery shop before it was mine.”</p>
<p>“I know Nora Allen didn’t tell you to go buy condoms.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I was too young then. But if she were alive when I was sixteen, she would have taken me there herself. I know it.”</p>
<p>Joe said to Barry with a narrow eye,” This number sixteen keeps coming up. You want to tell me something?”</p>
<p>Barry said, with an earnest straight face, “Iris and I were both virgins when we were sixteen. And we stayed that way throughout that year.”</p>
<p>Joe said, “Uh huh. I knew there was some pining going on in this house, and I trusted you both. Because you were both raised right. And I knew I was wrong not to discuss certain things….”</p>
<p>While her father tried to apologize to her and his foster son for not being there to explain certain things, certain feelings, and how to keep good feelings without creating bad circumstances, Iris slipped into a daze about Mrs. Francine West. When she was in her teens, she had found a couple of pictures of her, tucked under her dad’s dress shirts. She pulled them out and stood and studied them. Her mother was taller than she was, but same cinnamon arms and long legs, a great smile in both pictures with her dad present in one, smiling as well, his arm around her shoulder, so maybe that’s why he kept them, remnants of when they were happy.</p>
<p>“Iris,” Barry said, and took her hand. “What’re you thinking?” She came out of her daze. “Oh, just about my mom. I was just thinking that when we do have kids, they’ll all be tall. Their grandparents are all tall. Their father, tall. Their mother?”</p>
<p>“Beautiful, Barry said. “Our kids will be tall and beautiful.”</p>
<p>Iris squeezed Barry’s hand then, and picked up her glass of wine. “Here’s to Mrs. Francine West. Tall and beautiful.”</p>
<p>….</p>
<p>The next morning Iris cleared two free hours for the Very Sick Children’s Wing. She actually brought a story that she had written herself to read to her little sick ones, so sick, until Iris feared some were terminal. Mrs. Hayworth liked the fact that Iris got her children—as Mrs. Hayworth called them—to respond to her stories, to talk some and even to laugh. She liked the way Iris helped with their drawing and coloring, and in their drawing and coloring they forgot how sick they were, and embraced the moment, that they were kids who wanted to play.  Once Iris rescheduled because she couldn’t make it there—she had a CCPN deadline—and Mrs. Hayworth actually called the Picture News inquiring about her and offering her editor to pay her day’s wage if she could make it to the children’s wing that day, but Iris had a deadline and couldn’t let the Picture News down. Mrs. Hayworth said, “Well, okay, they’re going to miss you, but can I tell them you’ll be in tomorrow?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Iris said, come what may she thought to herself.</p>
<p>“Also, Mrs. Allen, some of the children would like to call you Miss Iris. I told them I’d have to get your permission. But it just means that they like you. They’re not trying to be forward, I assure you.”</p>
<p><em>Miss Iris. </em>She wasn’t Mrs. Allen to them anymore. Like <em>Miss Nora. </em>Iris smiled in her daydreams. “Mrs. Allen?” Mrs. Hayworth said. “Oh, yes,” Iris said. “Tell them they may call me Miss Iris.”</p>
<p>By that afternoon, she had completed her copy. It was almost finished. She was just polishing it. She studied her byline. People will be impressed with this story and the journalist who wrote it.<em> By Iris West-Allen.</em></p>
<p>“You do know that your byline is not really legal?”</p>
<p>“Huh?” Iris said, annoyed that her co-worker had interrupted her silent celebration.</p>
<p>“You’re really still just Mrs. Iris Allen.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Iris said. “Of course, I’m Iris West-Allen.”</p>
<p>“I’ll bet you didn’t go back to City Hall and fill out the necessary paperwork. And if you didn’t, you’re not Iris West-Allen.”</p>
<p>Iris gave her a look. “Okay,” the co-worker said with her hands up. “I’m leaving. Try to be helpful to some people.”</p>
<p>When her co-worker left her cubicle, Iris researched if the name she used in her byline was legal or not. And she was shocked, disappointed, and discouraged to see that it was not. But she had written Iris Ann (West) Allen on their marriage license. Why did the officiant ask her to put West in parentheses?</p>
<p>She was so distracted by what she found out that she hardly put a word on her note pad after that. She strummed her desk wondering when she would have the time to run to City Hall and add ‘West’ as part of her legal name. She was resisting the idea that it was something special, or extra, that she had to do. Writing Iris Ann West Allen on her marriage license felt so natural to her at the time. So why wasn’t it also legal?</p>
<p>“Iris!” her co-worker yelled.</p>
<p>“West!” her editor yelled. “Still waiting!”</p>
<p>She sat for awhile, deflated. But then her instincts and needs kicked in and she told herself to peek under her in-files. She smiled as her fingers searched for, felt, then pulled out his little note. Her worries left her. Her heart felt like butterflies. She opened his note. In his handwriting, she read, ‘No matter who you are, or who you become, rich or poor, anonymous or celebrated, you’ll always be Bartholomew’s girl.’ She was still smiling when she closed up the note and put it in her dress pocket.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bartholomew's Girl</p>
<p>That night Iris fell asleep in Barry’s arms dreaming of Bartholomew. She was a college sophomore again. Her roommate had unknowingly started the rumor. “Does Barry know you have a crush on this guy?” her roommate kept asking her.</p>
<p>“What guy?” Iris asked. She was too busy with her second year of college to get involved with any guy on campus. She was trying to get a handle on her major, trying to feel more confident that she could create something from nothing and offer it to an editor as something worthy of being published. And do it again, and then do it again. Then there was Becky Cooper, determined to be her sophomore nightmare.</p>
<p>Cindy Holmes said, “The guy in your tattoo—Bartholomew. Does Barry know about him?”</p>
<p>“Barry has seen my tattoo,” is all Iris said.</p>
<p>
  <em>Cindy rushed off to Barry’s dorm room and knocked with a loud insistence. Iris was actually watching her as if she were having an outer body experience. The way she did whenever a girl walked up to Barry. As if they had no right. Then pretend to not see. And then get mad, and not explain why. She saw Barry come to the door. She watched Cindy grab Barry and start kissing him. Barry pulled away. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Iris loves Bartholomew,” Cindy told the Barry in her dreams. “So it’s okay for you and me to date, because you’re just Iris’s best friend. Not her boyfriend. Iris is Bartholomew’s girl.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“…and then I told her that you knew of my tattoo, and she ran to your dorm room and started kissing you.” Barry listened intently as Iris replayed her dream over their breakfast table.</p>
<p>“Iris, nothing like that happened. Why would you dream that?”</p>
<p>“Because she liked you, Barry, and thought that Bartholomew was some other guy.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Barry said. “I think I met her once or twice.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I had to tell her <em>you</em> were Bartholomew, because she was <em>sooo </em>going to hit on you.”</p>
<p>Barry continued eating his bagel and cream cheese with a little slight smile just beginning at one corner of his mouth.</p>
<p>Iris said softly, “Do I see a smirk, just a tiny bit?”</p>
<p>His smile grew bigger, then he peeked at her from over his coffee mug.</p>
<p>She hit him on his arm. “Barry, if you weren’t such a nerd, you would already know about the girls who liked you in college. That’s why I had to tell her you were Bartholomew, or she would have been as big a headache to me as Becky Cooper during our sophomore year.”</p>
<p>“So that’s why she never hit on me,” Barry continued, still smiling, and Iris hit his arm again, but said, “I respect her for keeping her distance from you. And actually, I saw her the other day. So maybe that’s why I had the dream.”</p>
<p>“By the way,” Barry said, his eyebrows going up in a recall moment. “We got an invitation. It’s where we usually place the mail. Maybe you saw it, forgot about it, and then dreamt about it.” Iris looked on in curiosity as Barry went to the table where they collect their mail, brought it back and gave it to Iris. Iris studied it. The invitation was sent to a Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Henry Allen.</p>
<p>“Iris said, “Boy, Mrs. Hayworth knows a lot about me—and us. She’s giving me dreams or nightmares. She’s inviting us to her dinner party.”</p>
<p>“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Iris,” Barry said. Iris thought for a while before she said, “Mrs. Hayworth is really very formal. I don’t even know her first name. But I like her.”</p>
<p>Barry leaned over to read the invitation. “Black tie,” he said. Iris really didn’t know what to make of why this older, white, richer, more established woman wanted such a young couple as her and her husband in her social life. She said, “I’m afraid an e-mail won’t do with her. I’m going to use my monogrammed stationery to accept.”</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>It was three weeks later and Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Henry Allen were getting ready for the dinner party with finishing touches, busy in their bedroom. Iris came away from her vanity and twirled for Barry in a jewel-toned ruby red asymmetrical silk dress with beading at her bodice. Her hair was upswept. Her make-up was perfect and highlighted the smooth deep cinnamon in her face. The beautiful sight of her took Barry’s breath. He held out his hand and she took it. Then her arms went around his waist. “You look beautiful,” he said.</p>
<p>His tuxedo was well-tailored and classic and the first one he actually bought. Iris proudly remembered the stares he got from the other tailors as he stepped from behind the curtain to show her the new formal ware during their private fitting. His long legs brought attention to the tuxedo. It was slim and fit and flattering to his youthful physique. They all shook their heads in the affirmative at the first-rate tailoring, and the body in it, as they went back to their own chalk and pins and measuring tapes.</p>
<p>And they were right. Standing in their bedroom, Iris thought he looked amazing, right down to his patent leather dress shoes. She helped him place his cumberbund around his waist properly and fastened it securely at the back. She had her arms around him still after the assist. He said, “I didn’t know helping me with this piece of cloth—</p>
<p>“Your cumberbund?”</p>
<p>“…could be so sexy,” he said, as he watched her looking up at him. But she watched him, and his green eyes sparkled as she said, “Your hair is fantastic, and I want to run my fingers through it.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Iris,” he said, cheeks blushing up, half smile of appreciation materializing.</p>
<p>“But I’ll wait,” she said. “It looks great with your dinner suit.” Then he leaned down and kissed her by her mouth, not wanting to ruin her lipstick, but her lips parted and he took her bottom lip between his, then a series of open-mouthed little kisses. When her hand went up to his face for a caress, she said, “We better stop. The last time I was dressed like this, you ruined my dress.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I liked doing that.” he said.</p>
<p>She was still looking up at him, quietly studying him.</p>
<p>“What?” he said, not sure about the intimacy in her gaze. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just lucky.”</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>When they walked in to the Hayworths’ grand foyer, Iris gave her coat and her hostess gift of a box of chocolates to the maid, and she and Barry were quietly instructed to stand by the entrance of the living room, where the butler announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Henry Allen.” And they were escorted into the livingroom for cocktails and hors d oeuvres.</p>
<p>It was a small world. Cindy Holmes was Mrs. Hayworth’s personal assistant. Iris noticed the precise and tailored energy she used in making sure that no one stood around looking lost or abandoned or petrified of breaking etiquette rules. And from time to time, Iris noticed that she rested her eyes on Barry, which was okay, there was no harm in looking, just that Iris had seen those eyes with that gaze search him up and down whenever Barry came to her dorm room, which wasn’t many times, Iris had to confess, but the interest in Barry was still in her gaze. Iris turned away. She was making something out of nothing.</p>
<p>She left Barry’s side and casually moved towards Cindy. Iris knew she was working, but she would stop and speak. “So, when I saw you behind CCPN, that wasn’t a coincidence?”</p>
<p>Cindy smiled even though Iris could see that Cindy was slightly embarrassed that she was the worker and Iris was the guest. “Iris, hello, looking beautiful as usual. Red becomes you, and that draped asymmetry at the side of your dress shows that your legs are still great,” Cindy said, looking at the peep show of one of Iris’s toned calves. “I knew you’d be here, and no, that wasn’t a coincidence.”</p>
<p>“How’d you know I’d be here?”</p>
<p>“I mailed out the invitations,” Cindy said, smiling, and indeed her demeanor relaxed; she looked glad to see Iris. “I had an appointment with Scott Evans that day. And I think it went well.”</p>
<p>“Scott’s a nice guy,” Iris said. “He’s fair, and he won’t harass you, about anything. And when he starts yelling, don’t take it personally. I hope you get the job.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Iris. Well, I have to start doing <em>this</em> job. And even though I like Mrs. Hayworth, it’s just a job, not the job that I really want. The job that I dream about is at CCPN.”</p>
<p>“I hope you get it,” Iris said.”</p>
<p>“I’m like you. I like what I like and I like who I like, and I see you married who you always liked—Bartholomew.”</p>
<p>Iris was truly curious. “Why do you call him that? No one else does.”</p>
<p>“It’s how you introduced him to me. He was curled up in a tattoo in your shoulder. Well, around the Iris in your shoulder. So obvious for writers, Iris. Nothing like carving a man’s name in your body to say he’s just a friend.”</p>
<p>“He never was just a friend, Cindy. He was never just anything. He was always special, extraordinary.”</p>
<p>“Can I help you with anything else, Mrs. Allen?”</p>
<p>“No, thank you. I just wanted to say hi.” But when Iris turned Cindy said, “You helped me take the mystery out of writing. But you also helped me discover the mystery of writing. I changed my major to journalism because of you.”</p>
<p>Iris turned back to Cindy then and said, “I hope that was a good thing, Cindy.”</p>
<p>Cindy said, “It was.”</p>
<p>Exactly forty-five minutes later, Barry sat diagonally across the dining table from Iris. A few minutes before, when the butler announced that it was time for dinner, Barry picked up the little envelop with his name on it, and proceeded to open it only to discover that another woman’s name was on the escort card in his envelop. They both looked at each other and then Iris whispered, “Wait, Barry, don’t get the butler. This is the way it’s done. Remember what your mom said?” And Barry stood reaching into those private places for his mother’s words, for her instructions, her answers to his questions, her lessons, her firm insistence that he study his lessons, her proud satisfaction of his lessons learned, and mastered, ‘And that’s how you get through one of those. But relax. It’s fun actually.’ His quiet smile was from far away. Yes, he made the connection. They both did. Suddenly, his eyes were flooded with the mix of his childhood past and his present with the girl who overlapped both, to the moment, and for the first time, she saw other specks in his eyes, other simple joyous complexities. His eyes met hers, full of life. “Thanks, Iris,” he said. He squeezed Iris’s hand, then he gave the lady his arm whose name card had been stuffed into his envelop, and waited for the butler to announce, ‘Dinner is ready’ and escorted her to the dinner table. Mr. Chambers held out his arm for Iris and escorted her to her seat as well.</p>
<p>They sneaked glances at each other from across the table, from one course to the next, like two love-sick puppies, but mainly they got to know the guests seated on both sides of them. Barry had two ladies on both sides of him, while Iris had two gentlemen flanking her sides. The one on the left of her was a talker and the one on the right seemed shy. Nora Allen had taught Iris nuance etiquette, and Iris was able to read Mrs. Hayworth’s skills. Boy girl, boy girl, she remembered Mrs. Allen saying, and of course seated at Mrs. Hayworth’s table were gentleman lady, gentleman lady. Make sure talkers like Mr. Chambers are seated beside a grounded woman like Iris that would bring down the nonstop self-interested talk, and put the shy guy on the other side to get him to loosen up and say a few words. Sometimes those shy ones were interesting. Iris was thinking that Barry seemed to have gradually slowed down the younger lady’s nonstop personal stories as he turned to give his good listener direct gaze to the older lady on his other side. And this was happening up one side of the dinner table to the other. Mrs. Hayworth got an A+ as far as Iris was concerned in her seating arrangement. So even though the appetizers had worn off and she was hungry, she ignored her first course plate of soup and kept up her pleasant conversations until Mrs. Hayworth signaled to start eating by picking up her own soup spoon. It was moments like this when she missed who would’ve been her mother-in-law.</p>
<p>Actually, to Iris, this was the big league of private dining. To seat ten couples, twenty people, at one long table, granted the room was huge, but seeming so effortlessly, when she knew much planning went into this. Only a Mrs. Branford J. Hayworth would have the time and interest to pull this off. Even with help, Iris was impressed. She remembered how she didn’t plan her sit down dinner at her own wedding reception that she herself did not attend, but that Mrs. Thawne planned. And there she was, her actual mother-in-law for a few hours—well, legally, for a few weeks. Eddie’s mother sat at the far end of the table, close to Mrs. Hayworth. Iris didn’t even think that Mrs. Thawne had seen her during cocktails and hors d oeuvres, even though indeed she had spotted Mrs. Thawne engaging with other guests. It unnerved Iris, so Iris made sure to be at the other end of the room. Now though, Iris gave her attention to the guests seated on both sides of her. It wasn’t until Iris excused herself from the table that she realized that Eddie’s mother had indeed seen her.</p>
<p>When Iris came out of the bathroom, she was startled. “Oh!” she said. Indeed, she couldn’t believe she would run into her recent past, because really, until that night, she had forgotten it all. She said, “Mrs. Thawne, hello.”</p>
<p>“How are you, Iris?”</p>
<p>“I’m doing fine, thank you.”</p>
<p>“I met your husband, and I must admit, he’s a fine man.”</p>
<p>Iris said, “Thank you. He truly is. He never deserved any of it,” and immediately she regretted her words, which she decided to own. It was not Mrs. Thawne making her say those words.</p>
<p>“And what about my son?” Mrs. Thawne asked. “Did he deserve any of it?”</p>
<p>“No, he didn’t. And I wrote him a letter telling him how wrong I was. And Mrs. Thawne, I tried, but I wasn’t going to give up Barry forever.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Thawne took Iris’s hand. “We all are mending from that.”</p>
<p>Iris gently removed her hand from Mrs. Thawne’s. “I wish Eddie well. I have to go,” Iris said.</p>
<p>“One more thing, Iris.”</p>
<p>Iris stopped then turned and she couldn’t help but notice how Mrs. Thawne took her in, remembering how she always said she was such a beautiful girl. “My son thinks Mr. Allen has something to do with the Flash.” She brought up her hands and shrugged.” That’s all I know.” Iris waited until Mrs. Thawne entered the dining room. Then she did.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>So Mrs. Hayworth’s husband made everyone call him Jim. He wasn’t exactly the opposite of Mrs. Hayworth—she wasn’t a wallflower, but he was gregarious, sometimes a loud force at the dinner table. Iris was surprised and felt a little guilty that she had stereotyped Mrs. Hayworth. She was not the only black woman in Mrs. Hayworth’s house either. Barry and Iris weren’t even the only young couple. And as formal as Mrs. Hayworth was, she was warm to her guests, and warm to her husband.</p>
<p>And after dinner, Jim Hayworth gravitated towards Barry. Iris, in a little circle gathering of women with their glasses of sherry, watched Barry and Jim Hayworth engaged in genuinely friendly, sometimes animated conversation. Barry was drinking cognac, offered to him by Mr. Hayworth and what she liked to try. Iris wondered what made Mr. Hayworth and Barry laugh, then engage in quieter conversation. She yearned to be in their circle, because the old ladies were nice but boring, one-upping each other in grown children’s achievements and ivy league schools and secret ingredients in decades old family recipes. Iris wished she could excuse herself and join the men, but she knew she would scandalize the evening if she crashed the men’s corner and conversation.</p>
<p>The men were on their way out of the room, but it was obvious they were waiting for Barry, as he left them, seeking out his wife. Her heart warmed. She knew he’d find her, even if hidden in a circle of rich old white ladies.</p>
<p>“Iris,” and he took her hand as the ladies all parted while looking up at him, all speechless, his bow tie still straight and impeccable, his short coiffed hair still in place. He would make a perfect husband for one of their daughters, Iris knew they were thinking. Iris could tell, they thought he was adorable. “I’ll be with Jim in his billiards room. I’m going to show him how to play pool on his new pool table,” Barry said. And he kissed Iris on her cheek, but she could tell he wanted her mouth, but second thought it. So she took his hand, pulled him to her slightly, and gave him a quick kiss on his mouth, then watched him disappear with the men in Jim’s billiards room.</p>
<p>“You have a fine husband, Mrs. Allen. Jim very rarely takes to a man his age. He doesn’t give men as young as your husband the benefit of the doubt at all,” one of the ladies said.</p>
<p>“Iris said, “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“It seems to me, he studied when he was in college,” one of the ladies said. Then they began introducing themselves in earnest to Iris. Their conversations became more personal, more private. Iris was surprised to find that she was enjoying their conversations. Some were sweet like Nora Allen. One had a brilliant smile like her mother, the Francine West in the picture, or it could have been because she was a black woman and was taking to Iris. It took Iris a while to see that Mrs. Hayworth had left their circle, but butterflied from group to group. Maybe she would write a CCPN Sunday Edition interest story about formal dining, but with a twist: <em>Formal Dining for the Fun of It.</em> It would really be an ode to Nora Allen for just being her.</p>
<p>After dinner and billiards—really smoking good Cuban cigars and swirling and sniffing and sipping Hennessy cognac, while swearing and engaging in medical and hospital supplies shop talk in Jim Hayworth’s billiards room—there was music. It was a stroke of Mrs. Hayworth’s genius to get Cindy to que up the music selections. The selections made everyone get up on the living room dance floor at one time or another. The crowd enjoyed Sam Cooke, Frank Sinatra, Hugh Masekela, Whitney Houston, Wynton Marsalis, and other artists that complimented the guests’ taste. Cindy knew when the room needed the energy of an upbeat tune, and knew when the room needed a slow jam, a slow and intimate ballad for husbands and wives still in love. Which was why Barry and Iris danced to the slow ones.</p>
<p>In one of their last dances, Barry had Iris around the waist, her hand in his, their bodies a respectful few inches apart, but before the music ended, she was really in his arms, the side of her face touching his. She heard him humming. She felt his hand fasten around her waist just a bit more. She felt warm all over. She whispered, “I’m glad we came.” He lifted his head some to catch the meaning in her eyes. He said, softly, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about her, too.”</p>
<p>“And she would love this song we’re dancing to,” Iris added. “Your father, too.”</p>
<p>“ Joe would too,” Barry said. “I’ll bet he danced to a song like this with your mom.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Iris said, recalling the picture of her mother and father she had found under his dress shirts. “And I’ve never heard of ‘Chances Are,’ or Johnny Mathis.”</p>
<p>“Me either,” Barry said.</p>
<p>“But I’m going to put it in my playlist,” Iris said. Then their cheeks found each other again, until the music stopped.</p>
<p>Eventually the dinner party wound down. Couples were leaving. Iris whispered to Barry, “This is our cue.”</p>
<p>When Barry said, “Okay, I’ll get your coat,” Cindy walked over to him, stopping him. “Don’t you remember me, Mr. Allen? I was Iris’s roommate—sophomore CCU?” She shook his hand, as if she hadn’t shaken it hours ago. Iris left to get the coat and to give Cindy a chance to talk to Barry alone.</p>
<p>Iris stepped into what seemed like a first-floor guest room. Some coats and wraps neatly lay across the bed. Iris searched for her coat to drape over her arm. She could very easily put on her coat, but she loved that Barry liked helping her with it.</p>
<p>And directly, Mrs. Hayworth stepped into the bedroom. Mrs. Hayworth said, “Cindy has your coat. She’s waiting by the door.” Then added, “I’m so glad that you and your husband accepted our dinner invitation. The two of you brought unexpected life to the party.”</p>
<p>“Thank you. We’re glad that we came.”</p>
<p>“Does your husband play golf, Mrs. Allen?”</p>
<p>“No,” Iris said, smiling quietly. “He doesn’t. He didn’t have a chance to learn.” Iris watched her husband as he stood by the bedroom door, patiently waiting for her. The conversation was short with Cindy.</p>
<p>“What a pity,” Mrs. Hayworth said. “Jim used to play with Dr. Allen… before… that unfortunate tragedy.”</p>
<p>Iris looked at Mrs. Hayworth with surprise, then sadness, but also with a connection. “We’re sorry, too,” Iris said. And she started to say her good-byes once more and Mrs. Hayworth could sense it, Iris felt, but also, Iris knew there was something Mrs. Hayworth wanted to say to her, or perhaps needed to say to her. Iris waited.</p>
<p>“I know about the chapel incident. I’ve known since the incident, actually. I was there.”</p>
<p>“I don’t recall you there, Mrs. Hayworth, I’m sorry. But when I saw Helene Thawne at your dinner party, I guessed.”</p>
<p>It was then that Iris was about to take her leave, but Mrs. Hayworth said, “Mrs. Allen, you understand the essence of mortality, and the quality of it. I knew that about you the moment you walked out of the chapel. Or, someone whom you loved must have passed.”</p>
<p>“Both,” Iris said.</p>
<p>“That’s when we think of the <em>quality</em> of mortality. So I understand why you chose your husband over the Thawne boy. And I only superficially know the Thawne boy and I just met your husband, but you sorted out who you loved<em> when you had to</em>. And that’s the most important thing. That’s getting the essence of mortality correct.”</p>
<p>“That’s right,” Iris admitted aloud. The moment she knew for sure that she was about to lose Barry, she walked out of the chapel straight to him. She gathered up newfound respect for Mrs. Hayworth, and at that moment, Mrs. Hayworth seemed to know that.</p>
<p>“What would you say if you were put in charge of fundraising, and the money was raised, the benefits you held were successes, yet there was little to no money for the renovations, a few measly patient credits for poorer parents. Yet no one is supposed to mention it. I tried and was swiftly shot down. I was told in a most pleasant way to shut up. What would you say to that, Mrs. Allen?”</p>
<p>Iris said, “I’d say follow the money.”</p>
<p>“Funny, that’s my conclusion.”</p>
<p>Iris finally understood everything and she was a little miffed because she didn’t like being used, and dragging her husband along as well. She said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hayworth, I just can’t get involved right now. My assignments are really off the charts full. Is this why you invited us to your party?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, I really like you.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Because you really like those sick children. You’re not repulsed by their illnesses. As a matter of fact, you embrace them. You hold on to the deformed hand, you wipe the drooling mouth. That’s the ace up my sleeve, Mrs. Allen—those children.”</p>
<p>Iris said, “It was a lovely evening. Good night, Mrs. Hayworth.” And as she turned, headed towards Barry, towards his comfort later that night, hugging up on the window bench with him, enjoying his warm body with the wrap of their comforter; of their soft stories, their intimate giggles, the ‘I love you’in their silence, the ‘I need you’ in their hugs, both leaning against each other, just them enjoying the stars and the moonlight, as he presently stood up tall, politely ignoring Mr. Hayworth, his arms at his sides, waiting to help his wife with her coat, his eyes on her, their happy departure eminent, Iris heard Mrs. Hayworth say, “Mrs. Allen, please call me Hortense.”</p>
<p>Iris turned then for a moment, smiled at their hostess and said, “Please call me Iris.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p>It turned out Mrs. Hayworth got Iris to write about her experiences as a volunteer at Central City Hospital, Very Sick Children’s Wing, instead of unearthing who were stealing the funds from it. On that Sunday morning, when Barry was stretched out on the window bench, his head in her lap, she reading the Sunday edition of the Picture News, Iris decided that she wasn’t going to be angry with Mrs. Hayworth for trying to use her. Actually, she still liked Mrs. Hayworth, who was now Hortense in Iris’s life. So Iris decided to open the letter she got in the mail that Saturday from her. It was mailed to <em>Mrs. Iris Allen.</em> Iris smiled and told Barry that that was an improvement. She opened up the letter and was about to read how Hortense’s husband was still talking about Nora and Henry’s fine boy. And thanked Iris for making the young boy Bartholomew, now the man Barry, happy. Behind the letter, Iris pulled out a picture of Jim Hayworth and her father-in-law, Henry Allen both young men themselves. And by the date printed on the side of the picture, Barry must have been five and he had six more years with his mother, and a father that was free and happy and posing with a friend on the golf course, arms around shoulders, big youthful smiles. Iris was fighting it, but her eyes filled with water. She brought her hand up to her mouth and started to cry. Barry sat up, then gently took the note, read it, then stared at the picture, but then dropped the note to the floor to hold his wife, to comfort her. He shushed her but held her, saying that it was all right, that everything was okay, and that he would call his dad and they would all speak, would all connect, would all confess how they loved one another.</p>
<p>After a while, Barry said, “Iris, don’t cry. He was happy here.” Barry loosened his hold and Iris turned to see the picture again, this time Barry holding it for her with this amazing expression on his face.</p>
<p>“And you know what else? I’m not sad anymore when I think about her,” Barry said. “I realized that at the dinner party… when we were dancing….”</p>
<p>“To ‘Chances Are’?” Iris said, eyes lighted up. “I can’t describe how I felt in your arms, then, Barry, peaceful maybe.”</p>
<p>Barry said, “I just felt happy remembering that she was not just a woman who was killed, who was murdered. She was my mom, my dad’s love. She meant to him what you mean to me. And, Iris, no one lives forever, but when she did, she loved him.”</p>
<p>She lay back in Barry’s arms and closed her eyes and heard him say, “I love you for your feature story, you know. She would be so proud of you.”</p>
<p>Her eyes remained closed when she said, “Thank you, Barry.” He held her tighter, he leaning against the window with her, the photograph of a happy Henry Allen falling from his son’s hand, onto Iris’s feature article:<em> “On the Essence of Our Mortality: Choose Love” by Iris West-Allen.</em></p>
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